How Dare You?
by 3seconds
Summary: What if there was more to why Molly slapped Sherlock than just the drugs? Set at the beginning of His Last Vow. Rated M for drug use and mild violence.
1. Chapter 1

What if there was more to why Molly slapped Sherlock than just the drugs? Set at the beginning of His Last Vow.

Note: I love screenplay format, but try as I might, I just couldn't make this one work like that. So here it is in the original form it took when the idea hit my head. Reviews are greatly appreciated!

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The pleasant rush that heralded the arrival of the drug cocktail he'd just injected had barely taken effect when Sherlock caught the silent buzz of a text message. Luckily he was still propped against the wall. It required no great effort or movement to swivel his head slightly until the phone's owner came into peripheral view.

The girl was slouching on a bare mattress directly next to him, her head propped up, a grubby pillow cushioning it from the crumbling wall. She slid the phone nonchalantly out of her pocket, her posture straightening only slightly as she viewed the message. Something about the way her body tensed ever so slightly struck him as wrong. Fighting the desire to slide his eyes closed and enjoy the euphoria settling over him like a warm blanket, he turned his head a bit further in order to observe her more closely.

Her hair was lank, falling in a thin veil over her forehead, but on closer inspection, it wasn't dirty, had in fact, been shampooed within the past day. Similarly, her clothing was worn and grubby, but not with the type of filth one might expect from a junkie. She didn't smell of sweat or vomit or sex. He noticed the traces of recently removed make-up under her jaw line and her nails...recently manicured and even more recently trimmed short, traces of pale lacquer showing around the edges. She didn't belong here, any more than he did. What's more, she wasn't high. She was a good actress, but it was obvious once he really looked that whatever she'd taken earlier had no intoxicating effects.

For God's sake, why hadn't he observed her more closely before now? It was the drugs, of course, the anticipation of the high, clouding his reason. The very appeal of the thing and it's dirty trap, one in the same. The fact of it being for a case didn't diminish the allure, didn't negate the overall pleasant dulling of his emotions. What use did he have of those anyway? All they ever did was cause pain.

He used the motion of discarding the syringe and removing the tourniquet as reason to shift in her direction, eyes covertly on her phone as he did so. She shoved it under her leg and out of sight, but not before he glimpsed the message. It was short, only four characters, "3 min" but he knew exactly what it meant. He didn't need to see the smug look in her eyes for confirmation.

What he needed was to get up. Get out. He had just over two minutes now. He needed to run. Being arrested at this point was not an option. It was too soon. It would spoil everything. It would mean Mycroft's involvement, which he might need eventually, but not yet. He needed to move. Now.

Pushing himself up against the wall, he heard her whisper, "Too late" as he stumbled out of the room into the corridor. A surge of adrenaline moved him forward, propelled him toward the room at the end of the hallway, the one with the broken out window. Now that he was moving, he felt graceful, invincible. It didn't take much effort to clamber out of the opening into the back alley.

Unfortunately, he was several seconds too late. Footsteps came running towards him through the darkness. Two sets, one heaver...male, one lighter, more spry...female.

As if to confirm his analysis of the footfalls, he heard the woman call to her partner as they ran, "I've got 'im. You take the other side." The man's steps veered off around a fence, in the direction of a side door as the woman came into view. It took a nanosecond to formulate a plan...run directly at her, drop at the last second and roll to knock her feet from under her, then spring up and run again. If he could make the end of the alleyway and cut through the storage yard behind the adjacent building, he'd be free.

And it might have worked had she not anticipated the move. He dashed directly at her as planned, but before he had a chance to drop and roll, she did so instead. He managed to make a clumsy leap over her, but stumbled none-the-less, giving her time to spring back up and grab his shoulder.

They scuffled, him off-kilter and simply trying to push out of her grip, her twisting his clothing in her fists, intent on wrestling him to the ground. He managed to push free of one of her hands and turn to face her, planning to use his height to his advantage. But as he turned, searing hot liquid hit him square in the face, burning like fire and immediately blinding him. A second later her fist connected with his mouth. The pain of the blow compounded the stinging heat that enveloped his sinuses and crawled down his throat, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

Somehow, he managed to keep his feet about him. Even more miraculously, she suddenly stumbled backwards, choking and coughing as well. As luck would have it, the breeze had blown some of the infernal spray back into her face. It allowed him just enough time to stumble away down the alley, squeezing behind a wheelie bin and into the storage yard before she recovered her bearings enough to call for back-up.

He blinked repeatedly, trying to clear his eyes, his vision clouded and blurry. At the same time, he swiped at the trail of mucus draining from his nose and sucked as much air in through his mouth as he could manage without making great gasping sounds that might alert her or the other police officers to his position.

He'd had the unfortunate experience of being pepper sprayed once before and recalled the allergic reaction that followed quite clearly. He knew he had mere minutes, maybe less, before both his eyes swelled shut. Thankfully, the majority of the vile stuff had hit him in the eyes rather than the mouth, which might have swollen his esophagus shut. Potentially fatal, that. Still, he needed a safe haven. Somewhere close by to hide and wait for the effects to wear off. Preferably some place with running water.

He shook his head, flinging tears and snot droplets, surveying the small gravel yard where he stood with the one eye he could still see out of. No good, a security light illuminated one side and on the other there was a lack of anything that might provide a hiding spot.

He skirted along the storehouse next to the yard and briefly contemplated breaking into it, but once the narcotics team cleared the abandoned office facility he'd just come from, they'd no doubt search the adjacent buildings for anyone who'd managed to elude their initial roundup. There would be other runners, there always were. He'd merely had the advantage of a head-start. Sticking carefully to the shadows, he worked his way from alleyway to alleyway, while his nose continued to drain and his eyes burned, becoming ever more blind.

It was evident he'd never make it home like this. He wasn't near a tube station and there was nowhere nearby to easily flag down a taxi. Even if there had been, it was doubtful one would stop for him looking like he currently did. He couldn't show up at Baker Street in this condition anyway. He might be able to evade Ms. Hudson's scrutiny, but Janine was likely still asleep in his bedroom. There would be no way to avoid her. He still needed her in order for his plan to work, and needed her to be attracted to him, which she probably wouldn't be any longer, were she to see him in his current state.

There was only one plausible solution, much as he disliked the idea. He turned one last corner, the neighborhood suddenly transitioning into one that was much nicer and safer than the old industrial area he'd just come from, and made his way as quickly as possible across the short distance to his destination.


	2. Chapter 2

They'd never fought before, not really. Not more than the odd teasing argument now and again. Not until recently. Not until after they got engaged. Not until after Sherlock came back.

Suddenly now it seemed they argued and fought constantly. And it was her fault. Molly knew all the blame lay with her. Since Sherlock returned, nothing Tom did or said was quite right. Well, not nothing, if she was honest. The sex was still good. Very good. ...and they'd had a lot of it lately. Angry sex and making up sex. But it didn't change the fact that they fought so often now. That she picked him apart at every turn. That nothing seemed clear any more.

It had gotten even worse after the Watson's wedding. Tom might not be a genius, but he wasn't that big of an idiot either.

"I saw the way you looked at him." he wasn't yelling any more, they were past the yelling.

The sadness in his voice told her there wasn't going to be any sex this time. They were past that too, apparently. It was alright, she realized, once the heat of the fight began to fade. She was relieved, actually. It wasn't as hard as she'd expected to work the ring off her finger, leave it on the table and go home to her own flat.

She took a cab due to the late hour. Now, as the taxi pulled away and she approached her door, she caught sight of a dark figure slumped against the wall of her building's small courtyard garden. Molly wished she'd paid the cabbie extra to wait until she was safely inside her flat. It was a good neighborhood, but the warehouse district was near enough that sometimes unsavory things bled over. Once in a while the odd indigent or junkie wandered onto her street looking for warm shelter. Mostly they were harmless. She gripped her keys tighter, hoping that was just the case.

His head jerked up at the sound of her footsteps. She tensed, watching him wearily, knowing she should turn, retreat and ring the police. But even in the shadows, something in his posture told her he wasn't a threat. He made no move to rise, simply reached up and pulled back his hood to reveal a mass of dark curls. She exhaled with relief.

"Goodness, Sherlock," she said, approaching him, "you gave me a bit of a fright. What are you-"

The sight of him close-up stopped her mid-sentence. His standard suit and dark coat were missing. In their place, he wore a dirty polo shirt and a dingy oversized hooded jacket. But it wasn't his wardrobe that shocked her into momentary silence. It was his face, which was splotchy and very flushed.

He looked up at her through red, inflamed eyes, the left swollen completely shut. His nose was also red and raw, shiny with clear mucus that was smeared down over a puffy, bloodied lip and onto his chin. More snot was drying in a crusty mess down the front of his shirt.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed voice pitching up with panic, "What's happened? Are you injured?"

"No." he coughed, but made no move to stand. "I was on the wrong end of a can of pepper spray."

"And a fist." he added with a smirk as she knelt down to get a better look at him.

"When?" she asked, trying to gauge whether she should call for an ambulance.

"An hour, approximately. I just need a bit of a wash. The key isn't under the mat." he inclined his head slowly in the direction of her door.

"Tom doesn't like me leaving a key out." she explained, abandoning the ambulance idea and standing to unlock the door.

Why, she wondered, had he sat there for so long when his own flat on Baker Street was only a short cab ride away? After all, she might not have come home tonight at all, save for the fight. _Break-up_ , she corrected herself.

"Very security minded." he commented in a flat tone before pushing himself awkwardly up against the wall and taking a tentative step in her direction. She caught his arm and led him through the door, up the steps into her flat.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly towed Sherlock into her kitchen. She helped him carefully clean his face with washing up liquid and flush his eyes with water. He must have been practically blind, the poor man, with as dilated as his pupils were by the horrid spray.

"It's part of a case." was all the explanation he offered, and she didn't press him on it. There would be time to ask questions once the immediate needs of dealing with the reaction to the spray were met.

She gave him two antihistahime tablets to help with the swelling, and guided him into her small bathroom, instructing him to strip off and shower under cold water. She left him a clean pair of pajama bottoms and t-shirt of Tom's, despite his objections, and took the dirty clothing he handed out around the door.

She started the kettle, made tea and listened to his clothes tumbling inside the washer-dryer. Of all nights, why did he have to show up at her flat, tonight? She was exhausted, emotionally as well as physically, and wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed. Instead, she had a grumpy, injured house guest who probably wouldn't even tell her how he ended up there.

And, this man was the reason she'd ruined things with perfectly sweet, loving Tom, who was not a sociopath. What the hell was wrong with her, she wondered to herself as she sat at the table and sipped her tea. She was sick to death of dancing around the subject of her feelings for Sherlock, and what feelings he had for her. So her bed would have to wait a bit yet. When Sherlock emerged from the bath, they were going to have a properly frank conversation and clear the air.

Only he didn't emerge. After some time lost in thought, contemplating what she planned to say, Molly realized she'd heard the shower quit some time ago. Why hadn't he come out, then? Panic surged once again as she wondered if more than just the effects of the pepper spray was wrong with him.

She hurried toward her bathroom, but stopped short when the light from the hallway illuminated a figure in her bed. He was curled up on his side, on top her bedspread, fast asleep.

She stood for a moment, utterly angry, wanting to shake him awake. Ask him unabashedly what the fact that "she mattered" really meant to him, have it all out once and for all. Was he truly married to his work? Had she misinterpreted him asking her to dinner that lovely odd day he asked her to solve crimes with him?

But, he looked so beaten and vulnerable there in her bed, nothing at all like his normal imposing self. Her anger quickly abated. He was hurt and had trusted his care to her. She gently reached down and checked his pulse and breathing, then decided to let him rest. Grabbing the extra blanket off the end of the bed, she retreated to spend what was left of the night on sofa in the lounge.

His cry roused her from a troubled sleep sometime later. The pain and urgency of the sound had her on her feet and in the bedroom before she was even properly awake. She glanced frantically around the room, thinking at first that he was being attacked. But no. There was nothing else amiss. Just Sherlock sitting bolt upright, eyes open wide, staring into empty space, howling.


	4. Chapter 4

Author' note: Thank you to those of you that have reviewed. I've gotten the emails, but for whatever reason (glitch?) they're not showing up on the reviews page. If anyone knows why, please pm me and let me in on the secret. In any event, please keep the reviews coming! I do see them and they do make a difference. Thanks again!

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Molly had once witnessed her cousin's four-year old having a what his mum called a "sleep terror". This looked for all the world like the same thing. Sherlock sat, staring into space, his body rigid and quaking. He didn't respond at all to her calling his name or shaking his shoulders. But she stood, doing just that, unsure what else there was to do besides watch and hope he didn't wake the neighbors.

After a moment that felt like a small eternity, the howling stopped. He didn't move or speak, just sat, still tense and shaking, eyes open and blinking but unfocused.

"It's okay, I'm here, everything is fine, you're okay." she said softly, not sure which of them it was really meant to comfort.

He began to mumble indistinguishable sounds. She picked up 'not good' and 'John' among the random babble, but none of it made any sense. She moved closer, gently rubbing his shoulder and continued to murmur reassurances. Her cousin's lad had eventually dropped back into sleep, unaware anything at all had happened. Maybe Sherlock would do the same?

After another long minute, he flinched. Then without warning, he reached out, wrapped both arms around Molly and pulled her to him, burying his face against her chest. She tensed, almost losing her balance, shocked at his sudden motion. But he held fast, not hard, not hurting her, simply not letting go. Eventually, she relaxed against him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

"You're okay." she repeated, each of them encircled in the others arms, "I've got you. It's alright. You're safe."

She rested her chin atop his head, waiting for him to pull away, drop back into sleep. He was soaked in sweat, his t-shirt damp beneath her hands. He was still trembling slightly, but no longer talking, which she hoped was a good sign.

After a few more long moments, she became aware that at some point she'd begun to unconsciously sway, rocking them both back and forth. She forced herself to stop rocking and tried to pull herself out of his grasp, gently twisting herself around and tugging at his arms. Instead of letting go, it had the opposite effect. He swiftly curled back down onto the bed, effectively pulling her in with him, his arms still wrapped around her, his body solidly pressed against her back.

Molly was unsure what to do after letting out an initial gasp of surprise when he pulled her down. After a moment, his breathing slowed and she felt him relax back into regular sleep. She was fairly certain she could crawl out his arms, but she feared that trying to move might cause him to do... whatever it was he'd just done...all over again. She managed to wiggle into a comfortable position and waited.

She tried to imagine how she would describe the incident to Sherlock when he woke up, knowing full-well she would probably lose her nerve and not mention it at all. She knew she should free herself and return to the sofa, but part of her wanted to stay exactly where she was, curled up inside his arms, safe and warm, feeling his chest rise and fall against her back with each breath.

The events of the day caught up with her and exhaustion overtook her long before she could muster up enough motivation to slip out of his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock woke up on the wrong side of the bed, both literally and figuratively. Technically, either side of the bed was the wrong side, as he normally slept in the middle. On the rare occasions when he shared a bed with someone as he'd been compelled to do with Janine lately, he always chose the right side. It was the logical choice at Baker Street, being both closer to the loo and farther from the window, which was drafty in the winter. He had jolted awake to the realization that he was currently on the left side. But that wasn't why such a foul mood immediately descended on him.

The real reason was last night's endeavor going so spectacularly wrong, nearly compromising everything he was working on. It was the second drug den in which his attempt to establish a semi-permanent presence had failed. It would most likely set his investigation of Charles Magnussen back by days if not weeks, and necessitate continuing his relationship with Janine indefinitely. He liked Janine, but keeping up the charade of dating her was becoming bothersome.

A secondary basis for irritation was the fact that he was currently in Molly Hooper's bedroom, and for several seconds couldn't remember exactly how he'd ended up there. If he was honest, he also had to consider that the drugs wearing off might be contributing to both his disgruntled state and lack of memory. But he pushed that thought aside and concentrated on the events of the night before.

He remembered waiting in the garden, unsure whether to be disappointed or relieved when Molly arrived home, but feeling safe in her care, none-the-less. The memory of her gentle fingers on his head as he struggled to open his swollen eyes so she could irrigate them with water drifted back to him. He blinked, testing his vision, grateful to find no lasting ill effects, save a bit of lingering puffiness.

The last thing he remembered was fighting to stay conscious in the shower as the antihistamine pills she'd given him combined with the chemical cocktail he'd injected earlier in the evening. Ultimately, the combination had won out and rendered him unable to do more than pull on the borrowed pajamas and stumble into Molly's bedroom before passing out. Stupid that, he shouldn't have swallowed the pills, but it would have been more difficult to explain to her why he didn't want them.

He was relieved to remember it all, but none of it explained how he ended up sleeping wrapped around a thankfully, fully-clothed Molly. He searched both his memory and the room in general for any clue, but came up lacking any real data. The extra blanket was missing from the end of the bed, but whether she had moved it with the intention of sleeping elsewhere or it had simply slipped to the floor, he couldn't tell from his current position. No matter, there would be time to figure out the details later. A glance at the clock on the bedside table told him that if he left now he had time to return to Baker Street before Janine awoke.

He gently pulled his arm from beneath Molly's sleeping form, managed to rise without waking her and stepped quietly from the room. He found his clothes, clean and neatly folded on the kitchen counter. He changed, leaving Tom's spares in the washer-dryer, and slipped out the door.

He made a mental note to stop by Barts later in the week, when he knew she'd be working. But somehow, later in the week came and went. He became engrossed in the Magnussen case, and although he hated to admit it to himself, the thought of speaking to Molly about that night made him uncomfortable. What was there to say at any rate? He didn't wish to reveal his drug use to her or the details of how he came in contact with the pepper spray. Better to let her believe he'd tangled with some criminal, not a police officer. And it was obvious nothing had happened between them, wasn't it? She had helped him wash off the vile pepper spray, he had slept off the effects of the antihistamines and returned home. Case closed. What was there to discuss?


	6. Chapter 6

Final chapter! Hope everyone has enjoyed the ride!

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Molly woke up alone, still wearing her clothes from the day before. Sherlock was gone. She dragged herself into the kitchen to make coffee feeling utterly miserable. The events of the night before weighed heavily as she went about her normal routine. She spent most of the morning with her phone nearby in hopes that Sherlock would call. Or text. She didn't care which, she just wanted him to do something, anything, to let her know he was alright and acknowledge the night before. By the afternoon, it became clear her hopes were in vain.

Even so, over the next several days, she held up hope he'd stop by the lab or the morgue. She picked up her phone at least a dozen times intending to call or text him, but stopped short every time, unsure exactly what to say and not wanting to sound angry or worse, pathetic and needy. As the days dragged by without any contact, Molly wondered if he was actively avoiding her.

She began to realize that just like in the past, he'd gotten what he needed and disappeared without so much as a thank you. And for this, _for this_ , she'd ruined her relationship with Tom. She'd convinced herself that jumping off a rooftop and being gone for two years had changed Sherlock for the better. It had certainly seemed that way when he'd given his best man speech, but maybe that was simply an act for John's benefit.

Ten days passed without a word. When she finally got a call, it was on her way to work early one morning and it was from John, not Sherlock. He said they were coming into the lab and he asked Molly to do an impromptu drugs test.

The moment she laid eyes on Sherlock, everything became clear. He was wearing the same shabby clothes as he'd worn that night at her flat, and he refused to meet her eyes. Even so, she could see his were red rimmed and bloodshot. She knew the moment she saw his dilated pupils that there was no real need to test the contents of the specimen jar waiting on the counter.

The two junkies John and Mary had in tow were obviously high. Sherlock was too, just as he had been that night in her flat. She hadn't seen it then due to the pepper spray reaction, and because she hadn't wanted to see it. No wonder he'd had that strange sleep terror. No wonder he'd snuck out without a word.

All the anger she'd tamped down, all the frustration, the humiliation of being used again, of allowing herself to be used again. It all came bubbling back as she dropped the test fluid into the dish and watched the reaction she already knew would happen.

"Well? Is he clean?" John asked, though he clearly knew the answer as well as she did.

"Clean?" She spat back, temper flaring. It wasn't a question and it wasn't directed at John.

Sherlock didn't flinch as she ripped off her latex gloves, didn't pull away even though he surely predicted what she would do. He knew he deserved it, she had to credit him that. But it didn't stop her slapping him.

She had cared for him, risked her career and thrown away her engagement, allowed him complete access to her lab, her home, her life, and for what? So he could pump chemicals into his brilliant mind, risk ruining the very reason she was willing to do the things she did for him? The reason she was willing to forgive him almost everything...forgive him even for being who he was.

She slapped him again, even harder than before, hard enough to sting her hand. He didn't react, simply blinked, waiting for her to exhaust her ire. Couldn't he see what he was doing to her? How much he had hurt her? Was still hurting her? Couldn't he see how he was hurting all of his friends...and hurting himself? How dare he! How dare he act like he didn't care?

She raised her hand again, her left this time, and let fly hard enough to snap his head to the side and make his eyes water. Her hand smarted with the impact of it. She didn't care.

"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with? And how dare you betray the love of your friends? Say you're sorry!" the rest died in her throat. _Say you're sorry for leaving without so much as a word._

But he didn't apologize. "Sorry your engagement's over..." Typical Sherlock, throwing the fact of her break-up with Tom back in her face, showing off, hurting her in the process, just to deflect the focus from what he'd done. "Fairly grateful for the lack of a ring." He finished, rubbing his jaw.

"Stop it! Just stop it!" she warned him.

How dare he? She wanted to hit him again, but John stepped in at that moment, which was okay, because Molly was so angry she was practically shaking. And surprisingly as she listened to Sherlock claim it was all for a case and try to deflect the focus again, onto John this time, she realized she really wasn't angry with Sherlock. Well she was, but she was more angry with herself.

Angry for loving this infuriating man so much that she let him hurt her. Again and again. She let him do it every time. Every. Single. Time. And she would probably let him do it again. How could she? How dare she?

And yet she did...

(the end)


End file.
